Careful what you wish for
by I'm Nova
Summary: Watson just wanted a white Christmas. When it finally snows, trouble starts piling up.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, not even the idea. A.N. So, this was supposed to be last year's birthday story for my Holmes, also known as KnightFury, but a whole year and more passed before I knew it. Life is awkward and full of writing block sometimes. Heck, I 've been struggling to write today, too. I'm taking a leaf – well, half one – out of his book. More will come, but knowing me, not tomorrow. ^^''' The one thing I did was totally unnecessary research, and while not one year was perfect for the prompt, let me say this happens in the AU where the cold wave didn't arrive right for Christmas 1894, but with the new year instead. Happy birthday, my dear!

Careful what you wish for

December had been unseasonably warm. There were daisies and primroses blooming in Regent's Park. No flower crowns should be woven in December. What was next? Snowball fights in April?

As much as Watson felt he should be glad for the lack of cold and damp – his leg certainly was – he couldn't help but feel that the climate was all wrong. If the sky was his patient, he would have carefully investigated what secret ill it harboured. Even a patient being too energetic, too perky, could be a sign of some kinds of ailments.

Hence why he found himself wishing for a white Christmas. It wasn't sheer romantic partiality, like his flatmate had grumbled more than once. It would mean that the world had righted itself, and the doctor could relax, instead of waiting restlessly for another clue that they'd accidentally stepped into an upside-down world.

Fine, yes, he loved the idea of enjoying Christmas huddled with a good book in front of the fire, while the laughter of the Irregulars playing in the snow echoed from the garden. Their boys would then come upstairs, to receive their well-deserved gifts for the year's faithful service, and Mrs. Hudson's treats. That couldn't be considered a flaw, certainly.

This innocent desire wasn't to be, though. Oh, Mrs. Hudson's baking was an upheld tradition, as nothing short of disaster would stop the good woman. And the Irregulars were very keen on having their Christmas boons, bringing cheerful chaos in the flat. But the weather was still oddly warm, and lazing around would have been a waste of a – still, oddly – sunny day.

Oh well. He'd finish his novel another day. Maybe he could manage to persuade Holmes to have a stroll, too, even if the man was usually against purposeless endeavours. In fact, the man reminded John of a cat they had at home. Best mouser there ever was, but perfectly capable of snoring half the day away...inside their closets, nestled among any woolly garment he could find, if they weren't careful.

The wintry frost may have missed its Yuletide appointment, but apparently it decided to make up for it by coming in full force with the new year. Icy rain soon turned to proper snow, and soon London's streets were a mess of dirty-coloured snowflakes, hiding random patches of treacherous ice. The doctor was grateful that, as a respectable widower, he wouldn't be expected to make calls to any young lady. The lads in the market for a wife better not try to pack too many visits today, or the dutiful drinks would lead to more hurt limbs than even the greediest doctor could wish for.

When the snow continued the following day, Watson came downstairs to a frowning Holmes. "What's wrong, my dear?" he asked.

"If you have someone you wish to murder, today is the day. Your traces would be gone in five minutes."

The doctor laughed. "Thanks for the suggestion, but I think I'll pass. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm very happy to be temporarily without a practice. Unless I'm summoned, I plan to stay in and enjoy the sight. You have to admit, from an artistic point of view, today's lovely. Besides, who would be in such a rush to start the year with a murder?"

"Your Scottish ancestors would be shocked that you forgot the Appin Murder...and if you consulted my scrapbooks, you could find a number of others. I won't bore you with them, but common holidays don't stop criminals. Especially if other conditions make getting away with it probable." The sleuth smiled, hoping to offset the tone he'd accidentally taken. He was all too likely to start a lesson on subjects he was expert of, but not even his companion was in the mood for one all the time. "And speaking from an artistic point of view, I'm not enough of a fool to debate matters of taste."

Watson raised his hands in mock-surrender. "So you hate it entirely. I'll admit I don't have art in my blood. I wonder what kind of weather you'd enjoy, though."

"Any that didn't get in the way of work." Holmes thought better to avoid mentioning that after visiting Tibet, this snow – quickly turning to sludge in London's streets thanks to the traffic, and just as quickly replaced by another layer of snowflakes – felt like a blind kitten next to a tiger. Hardly comparable. That Himalayan snowstorms helped him, as not even Moran was bloodthirsty (or suicidal, really) enough to attempt to pursue him against what looked like God's ire, certainly contributed to the detective's fond memory of them.

A cough told him that the doctor had repressed the automatic retort, "You don't have any work to be hindered at present, though." He wondered if, his lengthy absence notwithstanding, Watson remembered his black moods with enough horror to wish crime would happen, if only to keep his flatmate busy.

As if summoned by the conversation, inspector Hopkins was announced. "I wish I could be here for late season's greetings, but I'm afraid, Mr. Holmes, that I can't make head nor tails of the latest case." He rubbed his neck, looking exceedingly like an embarrassed pupil in front of his tutor.

Watson smiled at him. "My friend was just saying the conditions are far from ideal for an investigation. Sit down, Hopkins, and warm yourself up."

The young inspector thanked him, shrugging off his snow-dusted coat. He moved a chair as close to the fire as he could without risking to catch fire himself, accepting an extra rug from the detective to wrap himself in. Watson offered him a brandy, which was sipped with a sigh.

"I'll be glad to hear your case now, Hopkins. Be as detailed as you can, if you please," Holmes instructed, steepling his fingers. A rustle of paper told him Watson was ready to take notes. The sleuth smiled. No matter what obstacles might get in the way, work was always the best way to start a year.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing. A.N. One day later than promised (where you are, I hope, at least ^^''') because orange alert level wind sent my brain for a bad spin, sorry, my Holmes. But here it is!

Hopkins dug into his pocket. "This," he said, showing the tiniest bullet Watson had seen, "is my problem. Or at least what might be the easiest part of it, if I knew where to look."

He looked expectantly at Holmes, but the sleuth didn't speak yet, only giving him a sharp look. He should have expected that, really.

"Back to beginning, though – yesterday, one of our most distinguished aristocrats threw a new year's party. Peers, artists, lauded wordsmiths, you'd have met all of them and more. In fact, Watson, you were the only one missing." He smiled.

"Thank you, inspector, but adulation will get you nowhere. Who was shot?" the doctor replied.

"The third son of the Earl of Halsbury. Nobody really tracked his movements – of course, what with drinks flowing and an opera singer, among others, singing a few arias for the other guests. When everyone went outside for the fireworks, they found his body. Even a bullet this small can be lethal, when it penetrates right into the nape of one's skull. Technically, the eldest daughter of the host found him." With his empty hand, the inspector started massaging his temple. "No weapon of any kind was found. Of course, I'm expected to solve this...oh, yesterday would be nice, and even imagining to suspect most of the people present would be an unforgivable offense. Which is why I'm here."

"I can't reverse time." Holmes smirked.

"No, but if anyone can solve this case before I'll be pressured into picking someone at random off the streets and charging them, you do. It's obvious to everyone involved, apparently...except me. Someone broke in to steal, was surprised by the young man, and killed them before escaping. Never mind that nothing was stolen, not even from the body, or that the weapon is one that I've never seen – random thieves don't really have unique guns in my experience. Not that the people involved would listen to logic." Hopkins grimaced in disgust. "Please, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll need a list of all the guests – unless the merrymaking was always supposed to go on for days, they wouldn't stay put. Did they even allow your men to search them?" The sleuth waved away the other's answer before he could even give it, reading the truth on Hopkins' sheepish face. "You've made the best out of a bad situation, by coming here. We'll help, of course. Before anything else, we'll need to visit the crime scene."

"Crime scene first, or do you want the names of everyone involved first?"

"Clues are disappearing by the second. Lead on, inspector."

Their haste allowed at least enough time to bundle up carefully, adding their warmest scarves and gloves to the usual attire. Frostbite and investigation were an impractical match. Holmes was a favourite of the London's cabbies, so they found one soon, thankfully. Hopkins half-suspected some cycled around Baker Street just in case. He really wished the driver didn't double-check the address with them before taking off, though – and that the glint in his eyes didn't promise that the man would be wondering what scandal was up at the pub tonight.

The estate was walled, obviously, and the servant in charge of welcoming them looked less than impressed with the inspector's return. "The family is very upset," he grumbled.

"We won't disturb them for the moment. We just need a quick look at the crime scene, they won't even notice we're here," Holmes assured.

With the chance of being reprimanded for what wasn't his fault by his annoyed employers removed, the man smiled. "Follow me, please."

Small mercies, the body was found behind a rhododendron hedge, next to a neo-Grec pavilion. Their guide immediately sought shelter in it, which made Holmes click his tongue. Yet more snow and mud dragged on the floor where their victim ended his life. How many people had since walked in? Hopkins, with an apologetic shrug, followed suit. Watson hesitated next to his kneeling friend, who was examining both the bush and the ground, after wiping the snow off as best he could.

"Get in, my dear Watson, you can't do more damage than it has already been done to the place."  
The doctor nodded, but still remained next to the pavilion's edge.

Soon, Holmes joined them. He examined the pavilion's floor for a few moments, before rising to observe the imitation-Ionian columns, and – from the direction of his eyes – what parts of the house could be seen from here. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at what looked like a shack further up – a sharp contrast to the beauty of everything around them. Even a tool shed should look better here.

"Oh, that's our hermit's dwelling," their chaperone said. "Why? Are you in need of spiritual counseling?"

"Aren't we all?" the sleuth replied, smiling.

The other man turned to Hopkins. "Would that be part of the investigation?"

"Naturally," the inspector replied.

"In fact, I'd like to interview you too...somewhere with walls," Holmes added.

"I have nothing to do with what happened!" The man yelled, then looked around, as if he expected someone to appear to reproach him.

"Of course," the doctor agreed, his hands opening in a calming gesture. "But you could have noticed something whose significance don't realise yet – like a small sign that someone did, indeed, sneak in that night while you were otherwise busy. I'm sure it was a hectic night for everyone."

Hopkins quietly thanked God they had Watson. The man was a treasure. He'd received enough doubting looks in this house (he might be young, but this didn't make him any less capable!) that here his attitude went automatically to the stern rather than the soothing.

"You or the good anchorite might hold the clue to solving this case. If you'd make our introductions," Holmes urged, nodding toward the cabin.

"Right this way, gentlemen, if you please."

They walked quickly through the park, the wind and the crunch of half-frozen snow under their soles the only sounds around them.


End file.
